


Five Ballrooms

by admiralty



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Christmas Party, F/M, POV Third Person, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28166670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/admiralty/pseuds/admiralty
Summary: Mulder and Scully. Five Christmas parties. Five separate POVs.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 21
Kudos: 147
Collections: X-Files Secret Santa Fanfic Exchange (2020)





	Five Ballrooms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CalifornianHouseplant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalifornianHouseplant/gifts).



> Prompt- One of my favourite tropes ever is seeing character/s or couple/s through the eyes of an outside observer, with this third person observer sharing their opinions/observations/etc of the character/s and/or couple/s. So I'd love to read about Mulder and Scully (and their changing relationship) through the eyes of other people. Maybe a Five Things/Times fic where either one character observes Mulder and Scully at different points during the series, or five different characters observing them, either at different points, or the same or similar points. 
> 
> Thanks to Mon and Kasey for the beta!

  
  
  
  
  
  


**1995**

  
  


_Tonight’s the night._

He splashes some water on his face from the sink, then straightens his shirt, adjusts the collar, tightens the knot in his burgundy tie. He pulls on his charcoal jacket, trying to forget his mother bought this suit for him, as he steps back and admires his reflection.

He’s not a bad looking guy. He actually looks pretty damn good tonight. He’s hoping she’ll think so as well.

Three years of pining has been long enough. Thinking about her has actually begun to affect his work; the mind numbing day-in, day-out lab procedures having evolved over the months into various daydreams about Agent Dana Scully. 

He needs to find out, one way or another. Christmas is the time for telling people how you really feel, right? She deserves to know.

He can’t help but pat the pocket of his jacket, where he’s tucked a single (thankfully unexpired) condom. _Just in case._

When he wanders into the ballroom of the FBI Holiday Gala - which he notices has been changed from last year's “FBI Christmas Gala” in an effort to be more politically correct - his eyes scan the room for her and only her. 

Co-workers greet him warmly, someone hands him some kind of festive alcoholic beverage. It has a cinnamon stick in it. _Jesus, they went all-out this year._ It feels like a sign he should go all-out too. He takes a long sip, the alcohol warming his insides. Liquid courage.

It’s at this moment he spots her across the ballroom, a vision in black, standing by herself, sipping champagne. 

_Do it._

He downs the rest of his drink and sets the empty glass on a nearby table, takes a deep breath, and begins the long walk through the seemingly endless sea of agents to get to her.

“Hi,” he says. It’s all he can summon up.

“Hello, Agent Pendrell,” she says with a smile. “Merry Christmas.”

“You mean ‘Happy Holidays,’ right?” he says, then, noticing the golden cross nestled in the hollow of her lovely throat, immediately regrets his quip.

She only shrugs. “I guess that’s what we’re supposed to say now. But it all means the same thing, I suppose.”

“That’s very true,” he agrees, overcompensating. He’s blown it already, and it’s been about ten seconds. Must be a new lame-o world record.

“Staying in town for the holidays?” she asks, sipping from her drink. He can’t help but notice she’s glancing around the room, over his shoulder, probably looking for someone else. Someone better.

“Er- no, visiting family in Milwaukee. You?”

“Sticking around this year,” she answers, her attention back on him. “My mother lives in town.”

“Would you like to dance, Agent Scully?” he suddenly blurts out. Her eyes widen a bit, surprised. 

“Sure,” she says, and it’s the single greatest thing anyone has ever uttered to him in his entire life. She sets down her glass and they walk together to the dance floor, and when she puts her arms around his shoulders, taking one of his hands, his own wrapping around her waist, he thinks he could probably die happy right now. 

They move to the music and he tries to remember this, the way she smells so good, sort of like lavender and vanilla, and the gentle sway of her hips as the dulcet tones of Dean Martin’s “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” accompany the single most romantic moment of his life. 

The song ends, and she leans back a bit, smiling at him. The moment feels electric, and he isn’t imagining it. What if he leans in, right now?

Her eyes drift again, over his shoulder, recognizing someone in the room, and that’s when he sees a change in them. He can physically see a smile appear in her eyes, watches as it actively chases its way down to her mouth, its corners turning up ever so slightly. He has a pretty good idea of who must have just entered the ballroom behind him.

Sure enough, when he turns around he sees Agent Mulder standing near the bar. The taller man doesn’t seem to have noticed them yet, but there he is, as handsome as ever. He takes his drink and meanders back into the crowd.

Pendrell turns his head towards Scully again, and looking again at her face, he knows, like a sharp stab to his heart: Agent Mulder is the only man her face will ever light up like that for. And he, Pendrell, is like the moon after sunrise. He no longer exists. 

Pendrell gets her attention and, while he’s still able, pretends that smile is just for him.

“Thanks for the dance,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”

She smiles, a twinge of warmth in her eyes. “Happy Holidays,” she responds, and turns to follow Agent Mulder. 

She always follows Agent Mulder. 

  
  
  
  


**1996**

  
  


_These fucking parties._

She hates them. It was nice of the FBI to extend her the courtesy, but she rarely attends, not even the ones hosted by the UN. They’re always extravagant affairs but can hardly impress her. She’s seen enough _impressive_ to last a lifetime.

Maybe that’s the only reason she’s here: to be unimpressed.

She smoothes her skin tight black dress over her hips, searching the room for someone interesting to talk to, or at the very least, someone attractive. She soon sees both, packaged together in no small measure, standing alone next to the baby grand.

Running a hand briefly through her bleach-blonde hair she catches his eye as she steps over.

“Agent Mulder,” she greets him, her voice slick as black oil.

His eyes dart furtively around the room. “We really shouldn’t be seen together,” he says in reply.

Marita scoffs and takes a sip of her vodka tonic, having declined the Christmassy concoction at the bar. “Relax, Agent Mulder. It’s a party.”

He takes a moment to let this in then nods, glancing around the room again. It’s that restlessness she’s seen in him before, the kind she finds so damn attractive. She thinks wildly of Alex, sweat running down his temple as he fills her up, gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises.

Shifting a bit at the vivid memory, she looks at Fox Mulder. She wonders, as she does at each of their meetings, what he’s like in bed. Would he be focused on her pleasure, or merely his own? Is he good with his mouth? How big is he?

“Working on anything interesting?” she asks, keeping up appearances. She knows all too well what he’d been up to in Russia a short while back, although she probably shouldn’t let on.

“Pretty much everything I work on is interesting,” he says, offering his first smile of the evening. “I’m sort of lucky that way.”

“I know what you mean,” she says, sipping her drink. “Most of the time my work is far more interesting than my life.”

“I find it hard to distinguish the two.”

She narrows her eyes. “Are you here alone?”

He pins her with a look, perhaps unsure of her implication. She notices that thing he does; the way his eyes flicker when he’s working something around inside his brain, letting it mull like the wine he’s holding. 

“Yes,” is what he lands on.

She glances up at the festive decor. Garlands made of tinsel, tiny twinkle lights. The innocence and gaiety mocks her, refusing to let her forget for even one moment all of the fucked up shit she’s seen. She’s trying, though. She’s trying to forget.

“I hate these things,” she says.

“Me too,” he agrees, as her gaze lands back on him. They both stare at each other but leave the unspoken question unanswered. 

_Why are they here?_

In any other circumstance she would interpret his behavior as flirtation, but this man has been an absolute question mark to her. He’s one of those men who oozes sexuality; when he looks at her she flushes and thinks about how he’d feel wrapped around her, thrusting into her. She can’t help it.

She’d like to let him make her forget, even for just an hour or so. But he’s never taken her bait over the past few months. She wonders why.

Perhaps she’s been too subtle.

“Want to get out of here?” she asks, sipping her beverage, then eyeing him over the rim.

He cocks his head, hazel eyes narrowed, piercing her own. He looks interested. She’s definitely seen ‘interested’ and this is how it looks.

“I just arrived,” he replies. “I haven’t even had any eggnog.”

The handsome young agent has dodged her advances before. She’s long suspected his integrity has been the only thing preventing them from some torrid liaison: she’d definitely caught him checking out her ass the last time they’d seen each other. So why does he continue to deny her?

She’s done her homework on Agent Fox Mulder: Oxford educated, lauded criminal profiler. Before he’d sunk into obscurity and near-ridicule he was well respected, smart. Savvy. 

He isn’t dense. He’s avoiding this opportunity for a reason.

“No strings,” she says, to make sure things are perfectly clear.

He chuckles ruefully. “There are always strings.”

She loses his eye contact for a moment as he glances behind her, scanning the room, ostensibly for someone else. 

She doesn’t have to ask him to explain, she understands now. Before she can continue to feel too humiliated, however, he excuses himself. She watches him cross the ballroom and head directly for his partner, the freshly-arrived Agent Scully, whose smile at his presence could light every Christmas tree in this godforsaken space. 

The redheaded agent turns, and as the two partners walk away together Marita watches his hand drift down, resting against the small of Agent Scully’s back, guiding her forward, and she knows.

She knows.

 _There are indeed always strings,_ Marita thinks. They just aren’t necessarily attached to her.

  
  
  
  
**1997**

  
  


Everyone thinks he’s a bit of a grump, and he usually prefers it that way. He’s the boss, after all, and the last thing he needs is for the agents working under him to actually like him. But he secretly enjoys Christmas. It’s always unusual being stuck in social situations at night with people he has to reprimand by day, but at the holidays, anything goes.

His wife reaches out, covers his hand with hers on the table. “Everything all right, Alvin?”

Kersh smiles at her. It’s something he does often but feels somehow foreign here, among all these people.

“Fine,” he responds. He examines the ballroom; the trees and lights. Enormous glass ornaments and festively flocked nutcrackers. He can’t help but wonder what the taxpayers would think.

Just then his eye is drawn to a couple on the other side of the room. He knows them by reputation only; Agents Mulder and Scully, of the X-Files. The female agent’s back is flush against the wall, hair as red as the files she investigates, nursing a glass of champagne. Her partner towers above her, his arm bracketed next to her head. They’re whispering intimately.

“Look at those two,” Mary breathes next to him. Apparently he isn’t the only one staring. “Is that... his wife?”

“His partner,” Kersh responds automatically, although he can hardly blame Mary for making the assumption.

Kersh doesn’t know much about the X-Files, but Agent Mulder has been the proverbial thorn in the Bureau’s side long enough for him to wonder why he’s even still employed. He can only hope he’s never saddled with the task of reigning him in.

Agent Scully, on the other hand, has a sterling reputation; so much so that he wonders how the two of them have stayed together for as long as they have. 

Mulder leans in next to Scully’s ear and says something, making her smile. Kersh has seen the young agent around the building, of course, but he’s never, ever seen her smile. He doesn’t trouble himself with office gossip; it’s rarely helpful and usually untrue, but the rumors about these two have been unavoidable. 

If they’re true, it’s irritating and unprofessional. If they aren’t, well… _why the hell are they looking at each other like that?_

It seems that, wherever the truth lies, neither of the two agents are interested in putting a damper on them. 

“They look awfully cozy,” Mary remarks. 

“They do,” he agrees, without humor. 

_Cozy_ agents are always trouble. And these two, well… from what he’s heard around the Bureau, trouble already seems to follow them wherever they go. 

Kersh lifts his glass of bourbon to his lips and drinks. At least they’re not his trouble.

  
  
  
  
  
**1998**

  
  


It’s not as if she’d expected to waltz back into his life and win him over, but she’d hoped. Despite what she’d put him through - what they’d put each other through - there had been moments over the years when she’d honestly thought he’d been the one. The only one.

She isn’t in a position to find any ‘ones,’ not anymore, at least. She’s out of options. It’s probably why she finds herself in this desperate position, practically throwing herself at a man she’s lost twice already. 

She watches Fox dancing with Agent Scully, although it isn’t really dancing, it’s more like swaying: arms around each other, her head buried in his chest. Like seaweed rippling in the quiet of the sea floor, alone and oblivious. 

They’re in love with each other, she’d be stupid not to see it. It’s painful, but also painfully obvious to everyone: at least, everyone except the two of them. Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. It’s rare when the two smartest people in the room are actually the two dumbest. 

She doesn’t wish either of them ill; on the contrary, she’s always wanted Fox to be happy. But all of those years between the life they’d shared and the one she’s currently living have taught her that happiness is fleeting. It's hard to know the taste of it until you’ve actually got it on your tongue. Her mouth has been dry for years.

“Merry Christmas, Agent Fowley,” the voice of Jeffrey Spender comes from beside her.

She wastes no time with pleasantries, her gaze never leaving the pair of agents spinning slowly around the dance floor. “Do you think they’re sleeping together?” 

Spender nearly chokes on his drink. “Um, well,” he sputters, wiping the front of his shirt. “It isn’t really any of my business.”

She glares at him, knowing a simple look will whip him into shape. It’s only a few months into this partnership and he’s already terrified of her.

“But,” he quickly adds, “if I have to guess I’d say… probably?”

“He told me they weren’t.”

Spender shrugs. “Then I guess they aren’t.”

She pins her partner with another look. “Are you usually this much fun at parties?”

He chooses not to answer, instead taking a quiet sip from his drink. As she peers across the room again, Agent Scully closes her eyes against Fox’s chest and he touches her hair softly, stroking it a bit. He then quickly pulls his hand away, perhaps realizing the familiarity of what he’s done. Diana wonders if this is for the benefit of their audience or for his own.

Several moments pass before she speaks again.

“Do you think she’s attractive?”

Spender hesitates. “Not really my type,” he replies smoothly, and although he’s probably just telling Diana what she wants to hear, she has a faint suspicion Fox is actually closer to Agent Spender’s ‘type’ anyway.

She scoffs quietly. “Of course she’s attractive,” she says grimly, more to herself than to him. “Look at her, she’s beautiful.”

Reflections of tree lights bounce off Agent Scully’s wine-colored gown, and the contrast between it and Fox’s dark jacket accentuate her extremely, uncommonly tiny waist. His six-foot frame holds her close. She fits him like a glove. They’re absolutely stunning together.

“Why did you ask, then?” Spender shrugs.

“I’m just making small talk,” she snaps. “We’re partners, right? We should be able to have a conversation.”

“We should, at the very least. Unless you’d rather snuggle up on the dance floor.”

“They aren’t even partners anymore,” she mutters indignantly, ignoring his remark to make a pointless observation. 

“Well, they sure looked pretty comfy together the night the X-Files office was burned,” Spender offers unhelpfully, taking another swig. Diana turns to face him, suddenly realizing he’s far more loose-lipped than usual.

“Are you drunk, Agent Spender?” 

He nods. “Yes,” he declares, very seriously. “Yes I am.”

She raises an eyebrow, wondering if she’s sold him short. He could probably be fun under the right circumstances. Useful, even.

“What do you mean, ‘comfy?’” she asks, genuinely curious.

He shrugs again. “Just, I don’t know. Touchy-feely.” He gestures out at the pair. “That kind of stuff.”

For just a moment, she tries her best to step outside of the emotional part of her brain that may or may not still be in love with her ex, to study the pair rationally. Yes, they’ve known each other for six years. But could she ever see herself dancing with Jeffrey Spender that way? 

She knows the answer to that question. She doesn’t even have to think very hard.

Jeffrey reaches out and touches her arm, and she looks down, realizing she’s gripping her shawl so hard her knuckles are white. “Are you okay, Agent Fowley?”

“I’m fine,” she says, a bit rattled. “I’ll be fine.” 

She releases the scarf, looking back at Fox, wishing she could release him so easily. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
**1999**

  
  


He blames _Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer_.

He’d only just arrived at the party and was quickly greeted by the worst Christmas song known to man. He hates it so much that he’d needed to physically remove himself from the ballroom, head outside to the courtyard, get some fresh air. He hadn’t even had a chance to grab a drink first.

The city is beautiful at Christmastime; he can see his frosty breath in front of him, blurring the white twinkle lights that adorn the tree lined street. He likes this time of year, truly. 

Walter Skinner is no scrooge or anything, it’s just… _that song_.

After enough time has passed for him to reasonably expect a different tune to have begun playing inside, he’s about to head back when he hears a sound coming from around the corner of the courtyard. He pauses, briefly. It’s a woman’s voice, somewhat distressed sounding, and his hand instinctively goes to his weapon, which he’d left at home, of course, because he’s at a fucking Christmas party.

He steps closer, closer, his footsteps lighter than his six-foot frame should reasonably allow. And as he peers around the corner he hears the sound again: a woman’s voice, yes, but there’s nothing dangerous about the situation after all, he quickly realizes. There’s a pathway leading back behind the building, but it doesn’t seem to lead anywhere; just meanders around some bushes and dead-ends. A strange architectural decision, for sure, but clearly a beneficial discovery for the couple furiously making out against the wall.

The man has her pinned against the concrete, his hips thrusting rhythmically against her leg, which, apart from a tiny sliver of deep emerald green visible above her thigh, is bared to the cold. He can’t see who they are, as they’re half-obscured in shadow - the top half, unfortunately, if he were interested in making an ID - but he quickly realizes the top half of this particular couple will not be the most interesting half, as far as he’s concerned. 

The man’s hand drifts down her thigh slowly, a couple of fingers sneaking beneath the fabric, lifting it high enough for Skinner to ascertain her total lack of undergarments.

_Holy shit._

He isn’t a pervert, he’s never been a pervert. But he cannot look away. The man’s thumb traces circles at the crest of her pubic bone, softly. Sounds of sloppy kisses echo in the small yard, and there’s something about the woman’s moaning…

He feels a twitch in his own pants, and while getting off on two strangers practically fucking in a public location wasn’t on his agenda for the evening, it’s quickly become his top priority. He only wishes he’d brought his drink with him, or maybe some popcorn.

The air is frigid, and he wonders why these two would be attempting this outside. There must be a good reason, of all the nooks and crannies accessible inside the hotel lobby, that they would risk frostbite to get their jollies out here, of all places. He reasons with himself, however, that they’re certainly warmer than he is, and neither one seems to be complaining in any event.

The man’s busy hand disappears into darkness, obscured from Skinner’s view, but as he watches the woman take a wider stance there’s really no mystery regarding where it’s gone. Her knees bend and while he can’t see either of their faces, he sees the man crouch down, moving his head undoubtedly to the location of her breasts. Her hands clutch his shoulders, scratching up and down his back.

Starting to realize that _Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer_ had actually turned out to be a godsend, he glances behind him to make sure there are no other interlopers. Participating in this unsolicited peep show is bad enough; he’d hate to be actually witnessed doing it.

For a brief moment his conscience gets the better of him, and he considers just walking away, leaving these two to their business before things get any worse.

_Or better._

Before he has a chance to turn around, the man is suddenly on his knees and his head has disappeared beneath her dress. The woman gasps as her hands drop to cradle his head, and she rocks on her heels, the moaning picking up in intensity.

There’s something very familiar about the woman’s voice; it’s definitely someone he knows. His brain attempts to make the connection it’s been stubbornly refusing to make for the past couple of minutes. The anonymous nature of this encounter has thus far rendered it morally defensible but now, every fiber of his being is screaming at him to leave them alone before recognition ruins everything.

And that is absolutely his plan, it truly is, until…

“Oh, _fuck,_ _Mulder!_ ”

Fox Mulder makes Dana Scully come, right there in front of him. And there’s nothing Skinner can do about it.

He watches Mulder stand and carefully straighten her dress out, leaning in to kiss her, both of their heads still in complete darkness. 

Turning quietly, he walks back into the ballroom in a daze, deciding the confirmation that Agents Mulder and Scully are in fact sleeping together is quite possibly worse than any awful Christmas tune he can think of. He isn’t cold anymore. He’s completely lost whatever erection had been building in his pants. 

_What the hell does this mean?_ He should be happy for them. He’s long suspected this, in any event. It doesn’t feel like a surprise. Perhaps it’s merely the shame of bearing witness to such a private, intimate moment between two people in his charge; his friends, really. Agents he respects. 

In a way, he’s violated them. He feels awful.

Trying to calm his nerves, he gets a dirty martini at the bar and attempts to converse with some co-workers. Any minute now, Mulder and Scully will appear and he’ll have to face them. What if they find out? Somehow, will they know about his transgression?

The unavoidable moment soon arrives and Mulder appears in the entryway, alone. He casually walks inside, says hello to some people Skinner is well aware he does not even know, then catches his boss’s eye. Mulder nods, Skinner returns the greeting, and Mulder takes this as an invitation to approach.

“Hey, Walter,” he says with a huge grin on his face. Skinner tries very, very hard to ignore the hint of wetness on his chin. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” he replies gruffly. “No Agent Scully tonight?”

Mulder very showily looks around the ballroom. “I haven’t seen her, actually. Have you?”

“I have not,” Skinner replies, perhaps too quickly.

Mulder doesn’t seem to notice or mark Skinner’s disposition whatsoever, and barely thirty seconds have passed when they spot Agent Scully in the entryway, radiant as ever in her - yes - emerald green dress.

Skinner inwardly rolls his eyes at their attempt at subterfuge. _They’re lucky they’re good at solving mysteries, because they sure are shit at maintaining any._

Scully gives a little wave and Mulder waves back. Skinner’s eyes flicker between them and his first instinct is to be instantly uncomfortable, but as she walks toward them he realizes something that gives him pause. He can’t help but notice how… happy they both look. Scully, especially. He so rarely sees her smile at work. It’s actually really, really nice.

“Merry Christmas,” she says to him politely. The investigator in him can’t help but observe that she doesn’t greet Mulder at all. “Have you been here long?”

“Not long, I, uh… arrived just a few minutes ago.” He then feels an overwhelming urge to steer the conversation away from his being anywhere in their vicinity ‘just a few minutes ago.’

“I was actually going to go get some food. The buffet looks pretty great, care to join me?” He lifts his glass to his mouth and sips nervously, eyeing them.

“No thanks, I’ve already eaten,” Mulder says, winking at Scully. 

Skinner chokes on his drink. He coughs and sputters, nearly dropping his glass. Scully immediately takes action, patting his back. “Are you all right, sir?” She makes sure he isn’t drowning in his own martini before he rights himself, putting a hand up, insisting he’s fine.

She backs up a bit, first standing next to Mulder, then shifting away from him a couple of feet. “Thanks, but I’m going to go grab a drink first,” she responds to his invitation. “Uh, Mulder? Care to join me?”

He shrugs, notably unbothered by this entire encounter. “That sounds great.”

Skinner looks between them. They seem to be making an active effort not to stand too near one another, and it occurs to him how unfortunate it is that they feel the need to hide the nature of their relationship from him. Well, from everyone. They can’t just be ordinary together here, in this space, around their peers.

And then he realizes the reason: this is no ordinary partnership. It never has been. 

Skinner has watched this relationship blossom for years, not once properly appreciating he’d been given the opportunity to witness those seeds grow. Sometimes it had just been a look, or maybe the way Mulder would touch the small of Scully’s back. Maybe it was the way they always spoke to each other as if they were the only two people in the room, or possibly even when he’d seen them dancing together at these events. But somehow he’s always known they’d end up exactly where they are right now, eventually.

He relaxes for the first time since he’d been outside, amazed that this revelation is actually making him feel better. This isn’t just some random couple he happened to stumble upon. This is _Mulder and Scully_. And they deserve happiness like anyone else.

More than anyone else, really.

“You two enjoy yourselves,” he says, preparing a hasty retreat. “This is a party, after all.”

He gives Mulder a pointed look, followed by a tight smile for Scully, then retreats back into the crowd, leaving them alone once more.

Hours later, after most of the guests have departed, he sees them again. Together, of course. Standing near the mistletoe, although not quite beneath it. Mulder says something and she laughs, then he takes her hand and kisses it. They just look at one another for a while, and once again, they are the only two people in the room.

No one else is watching them, but what Skinner sees is something he’s always seen: an extraordinary partnership. In every sense of the word.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.


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